You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me
by xFutureDreamingx
Summary: Recently back from Afghanistan, John Watson receives a special item from his grandfather's will that has always been in the background of his life. Whilst at any other time he would have welcomed this addition, the loss of his only family member left weighs hard on his heart. Is there something - or someone - inside the ancient, antique lamp that can lift his spirits at all?
1. Chapter 1

_To Robin Williams, _

_Whose wonderful acting and voice talents inspired my thought processes for this plotline. Even in death you inspire people and create goodness in the world. You're free now, sir. And yet you live on in the memories and remembered childhoods of so many people. Thank you._

**You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me**

In all honesty, it should have made sense. Well, it should have made sense to John, anyway. Most people wouldn't understand why it was so normal for John Hamish Watson to be sat in his flat, staring at one of those old style lamps from the stories and myths that people tell you about. You know, the sort that contain genies, the Jinn, or whatever variation of the myth suits your fancy. John had gone through stages of belief in myths and legends. When he was a boy? There was nothing you could stop him from believing in; Father Christmas, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy? You name it, he'd think it was real. Then onto his older childhood years and into teenhood, the doubts settled in and the inevitable revealing of parents' lies crashed down on his shoulders and his spirit with a heavy thud. And he took this dull weight with him all the way to Afghanistan, fighting a battle that was seemingly never ending. He'd seen things out there, though, things that anyone of the faint at heart would easily try to avoid for the vast majority of their lives. And this wasn't all of the death and violence, it was something not of this world, something spiritual and dark. John would probably have been scared out of his wits too if there wasn't a bloody great fight that he was trying to survive. Well, his job was obviously to aid any wounded soldiers that came his way, but that didn't mean that he never had to shoot a gun whilst he was out there. No sir, he was no stranger to firing bullets at the enemy for the sake of innocent people who would otherwise lose _their _lives. So there he was, back to believing in all sorts of things that may or may not be real. But these things were no longer the happy figures he liked to believe were real in the days of his boyhood, they were darker and far more sinister. Back in London, his nightmares now consisted of fellow soldiers dying before his very eyes, but there was also one where he would reach out into the darkness only to feel his hand clasped by something not quite normal, something not quite in the world of the living.

As for the lamp in his possession, well, John should have seen that coming. Whilst alive, his grandfather had been something of a humble traveller, and even joined archaeological teams on their forages for hidden treasures. John had seen this particular lamp a fair few times in his life, it'd been one of his favourites out of his grandfather's possessions. It was like a pirate's treasure trove up in his grandfather's loft, full of antiques and items found on the older man's explorations with the archaeologists. The lamp was rather beautiful, even if John could see now in his wiser years of early adulthood that there was a great deal of rust and dirt covering the once-shiny copper metal. As a child, the rust and dirt had been part of the charm of the beautiful ornament, well it still was, if he was honest with himself. The fact that this lamp was one of the most unassuming items that had ever been in his grandfather's possession was what had drawn John to it in the first place. And yet, as the older John sat staring at the lamp on his desk, he couldn't help but wonder back to his memories of the strange, yet wonderful object. No matter how many times he'd asked to hold, or even just touch it, when he was a boy, his grandfather, the original - but not the first - John Watson had always refused. He'd even gone so far as to putting the lamp out of the little boy's reach so there'd never been any chance of him even so much as getting a good look at it. Even that had made John sad. He had just wanted to touch it, to see what the warm-looking metal would feel like under his fingers. After all, how could something so pretty hurt him? His mother had always stopped him from touching or getting near things that could hurt him, but this was just a funny looking lamp! As he'd grown older, the lamp hadn't been as much of an obsession to him, just sort of in the background of his thoughts every so often, when he wasn't bogged down by school, homework, and a steady stream of on and off girlfriends. Oh, and that one boyfriend he never told anyone about. Since his mother, father and sister, Harry, had died in that god-awful car crash when he was a young boy, he'd always lived with the older John Watson, and life had never been boring, even as his grandfather slowly, but steadily, got older and more frail. After John had gone through uni and gained his medical degree, and even his doctorate, that was when he decided he wanted to save people. And so that's how Afghanistan came along. Even though he was scared of losing the young boy, his grandfather had encouraged him and told him his parents would be so proud. And that's what drove John the most.

So it was no surprise that it'd been a long time since this lamp had been in John's thoughts. Saving innocent people from being gunned down and seeing friends and fellow soldiers fall dead at his feet was enough to push the damned thing out of his mind for a long, long while. Perhaps not long enough. Because the arrival of this particular item to his flat had only ever meant one thing, and it was something he'd hoped wouldn't happen until far into the future. He'd known, though, of course he had. His grandfather was back in England getting older and older, and even more sick and frail, with each day that passed that John was out there fighting. He'd barely had time to get his bearings back in London, had only been there a few days, when the lamp had arrived along with a man dressed in a formal, black suit to bring the bad news. He revealed that the lamp was now in his possession, due to his grandfather's will, as was most of the rest of the late John Watson's belongings. John didn't care about any of the material things, didn't care about the money or the house - which had once been his home too. He wanted his grandfather back, wanted to see the warm smile that would always greet him whenever he'd visited the old man. Regret swam about in John's mind that he hadn't been there for the elderly man in his worst time, but selfishly he still couldn't bring himself to wish that he hadn't gone to Afghanistan. A changed man, that's what most people would say. The things he'd seen and done had ensured he would never be the same naive, innocent boy that his parents had known. Even during this time of development for John, his grandfather had always been there for him, had talked him through his troubles and made him smile when it felt like he'd never smile again. That sent another spike of guilt through him as he sat there on his bed, and he pressed the palm of his hand to his eyes and allowed himself a moment.

The moment dragged on until he'd been sat there for almost an hour before he finally looked up at the lamp again, tears in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. He gave another sigh and then stood, coming over to his desk and taking the lamp by its handle.

"What good are you to me now?" he muttered to the inanimate object, his gaze no longer full of wonder and amazement like it had been so many years before.

All there was when he looked at the dull copper metal now was a dead, cold look, exhaustion etched into the new lines of his face. John was in no way old yet, or even nearing it, but the war had taken a lot out of him and even just by looking in his eyes you could see everything that he'd seen. The lamp no longer brought joy to his heart the way it once had done.

"I don't want you, I want him," John said quietly, his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence as he started to sob quietly to himself.

He set the lamp back down on the table and once again covered his face with one of his hands, his shoulders shaking slightly as the grief took over him. If he didn't have his grandfather, he didn't want any of his possessions, they would never hold anything for him except bittersweet memories that would fade over the years. Most people would treasure that since they had nothing else, but in his moment of grieving, nothing was enough for the ex-army doctor.

In the midst of his tears and pain, John jolted slightly as a whizzing sound echoed throughout the room and he looked up, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion as he glanced about the room. Where had that noise come from? Sniffing slightly, he grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and moved to blow his nose when something glowing gold caught his eye. Pausing, he turned to see his grandfather's lamp and stared at it when it appeared that the object was glowing. It was as if the originally dull metal was now burning hot and glowing like embers in a fire. Rubbing his eyes a few times, John looked at it again and swallowed, his gaze curious, but wary.

"I've fallen asleep, that must be it," he murmured to himself, shaking his head and taking a deep breath, "This isn't happening."

Those things don't exist, if they did his grandfather would have told him, surely. Obviously he'd fallen asleep from the exhaustion of the emotionally challenging day and his dreams were reverting him back to his childhood when he believed in such things. And yet… His memories of the shadows, figures and voices he'd experienced in Afghanistan came to the forefront of his mind. There was no doubt that he'd seen things that were supernatural. Was there any other explanation for what had happened back then? As he sat there pondering those thoughts, he heard the whizzing sound again, though this time he also saw, out of the corner of his eye, the lamp shift its position on the table slightly, as if moving by itself.

"Okay, let me get this all out of my head and I'll prove you're not real," John muttered, reaching out to take the lamp in his hands.

The metal, instead of being hot like the golden glow suggested, was still cool to the touch and for that John was thankful since he'd rather mindlessly reached out to pick the lamp up. As he stood there with it in his hands, finally, after years and years of wanting to do so in his childhood, John didn't feel the same longing. There was something tugging at him, but it wasn't the same childish admiring of shiny, old things. He just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"What did my grandfather see in you?" John asked the ornament he held in his hands.

After taking a deep, almost nervous breath, he rubbed his hand over the main body of the lamp once, twice, three times, and then over and over slowly as he watched the copper metal gleam brighter and brighter as if reacting to his touch. Eyes widening slightly, John kept on rubbing for longer than he expected, before the lamp all of a sudden just dimmed back to its original dull colour. Disappointed and more than a little confused, John stared at the lamp before he opened the lid and peered into its shallow depths. Nothing but dark metal also suffering the same rust as the outside.

"Stupid thing," John muttered with a frown, chucking it back onto the desk and walking away to grab his coat and his cane to go let off some steam with a walk out.

_Stupid me_, John thought to himself. He was an idiot for thinking anything would even happen with that old antique. It probably hadn't even glowed, it'd obviously caught a gleam of sunshine from outside, something like that.

When John returned back to his temporary flat later that evening, he was exhausted both physically and emotionally. How was it that not a month ago he'd been able to trek miles and miles every day with his fellow army mates across scorching desert lands, but now he couldn't even go for a walk around London without needing a nap? He supposed the shoulder injury and his limp had something to do with it, but he didn't like to make excuses. Something was wrong with him and he needed fixing, that was obvious. Not long after he got in from his walk around the neighbourhood, not that you could really call it that from the state of the area he currently lived in, John could do nothing but change into some pyjamas and crawl into bed. He was about ready to slip off into sleep when his gaze caught the lamp on his desk, that damned, infuriating thing that had always been in the background of his life. He wanted his grandfather, even if it was just to see him one more time and say everything he needed to say and apologise for not being there. Sighing, he turned away from it and laid on his side so he had his back to it, then closed his eyes. It took a while, but eventually John did finally get the sleep he needed. Whilst the man was blissfully unaware as to what was happening, the lamp began to glow again, this time getting so bright as to light up a corner of the room with its golden brilliance. John shifted in his sleep but remained in the land of nod as a stream of silver smoke poured from the spout of the lamp and transformed slowly into the figure of a man. Said man was tall and thin, dressed in traditional harem pants and a waistcoat, with bangles on his ankles, as well as two larger, silver cuffs at his wrists. His hair was dark and curly, whilst his eyes never seemed to appear one colour, always shimmering from blue to green to grey, though grey was the most prominent colour. The mysterious figure walked silently over to John sleeping in his bed and he crossed his arms as he stared down at him, a displeased look on his face.

"Idiot," he muttered, shaking his head, "So stubborn. As soon as you realise what I am you'll turn greedy like the rest of them."

With a sigh as if highly put upon, the tall man clicked his fingers and a chair appeared, setting it beside John's bed and he sat in it, reclining his bare feet up on the edge of the bed as he waited for his new master to wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

**You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me**

_Recently back from Afghanistan, John Watson receives a special item from his grandfather's will that has always been in the background of his life. Whilst at any other time he would have welcomed this addition, the loss of his only family member left weighs hard on his heart. Is there something - or someone - inside the ancient, antique lamp that can lift his spirits at all?_

_**A/N:**_ _I'm hoping that some things will make sense at the end of this chapter, if only a little bit. Bear with me, I am slowly revealing layers chapter by chapter. I just hope not too slowly! And, as always, all criticism is welcome._

**Chapter 2**

Morning arrived with the sound of rain lightly pattering on John's window and he stared up at the ceiling once awake, his eyes feeling heavy from where he'd shed a few tears in his sleep. Even though he'd slept all the way throughout the night, that didn't mean his slumber was undisturbed. Dreams of his grandfather had plagued him, dreams where his last remaining family member called out to John in his times of need, wondered where the young man had gone and why he had left him. The faint memory of those images left a dead weight that settled in his chest as he laid there in bed, regret and pain making his heart swell, feeling fit to burst. As he continued to stay in his bed, he lay there unaware that there was another living being in the room, in fact said being was watching him intensely. The tall, slim figure that had seemingly appeared in the room from the lamp on John's desk was still sat in the chair beside the bed, as he had been all night. He didn't have a lot of patience, but if this man was to be his master for the foreseeable future then he knew that he needed to show himself at some point, and so he stayed at the ex-army doctor's bedside, watching over him if you will. At least this was someone new, and he'd had more than enough time to study the human whilst unconscious, but he'd gotten bored and wanted him to wake up so that he could see his reactions whilst conscious. Of course, it'd probably help if he wasn't invisible so then maybe John would see him and they could get this plan set in motion. Well, no time like the present.

Just as he was wondering whether or not to get up today, feeling miserable in his self-pitying state with his shoulder aching and his leg playing up too, John glanced at his bedside as something flashed in the corner of his eye. He jumped at what he saw there and scrambled to the far side of his mattress towards the wall, inwardly cursing at the stabbing pain in his shoulder that protested at the sudden movement.

"What-" he got out through his startled, somewhat panicked state, almost too shocked to form any kind of coherent sentences, "How did you get in here? Who are you?!"

Before he'd come back from Afghanistan, John probably would have been able to think more clearly in such a stressful situation, and act in a quick and efficient manner. Things were different now. His emotions were playing with his mind and he couldn't think with the same logical, rational thought patterns that he had done in order to save the lives of his fellow comrades back then. The mysterious figure at John's bedside watched the ex-army doctor intently, cataloging his movements, his speech patterns, anything he could pick out from his observations of the man. He put his feet down on the floor and sat up, placing his hands on his knees and cocking an eyebrow in consideration of John's panicked questioning.

"I would have thought it was obvious how I got in here. You rubbed the lamp, did you not? You're not a _complete_ idiot. Rub a genie's lamp and you summon the genie inside and you become their master. So here I am," he murmured, not bothering to raise his voice above being only just audible, "Surprise."

Going by the horror-struck look on John's face, it was quite obvious that he hadn't expected anything of the sort when he'd rubbed the lamp last night. He'd only done it to dispel the stupid idea he had in his head that something weird was happening. All that rubbing the lamp had confirmed to him was that he was obviously too emotional to think straight and he was even imagining things. A therapist would probably tell him that he wanted the lamp to work so that he would feel closer to his grandfather, or some other bullshit like that. What did they know? As if regaining the ability to speak in proper sentences, John sat up and took a deep breath. If speaking to this hallucination would make it go away, he was going to try.

"If you're the genie that was supposedly living in that lamp, why didn't you show yourself straight away? Isn't that how it's supposed to happen?"

Not that he believed anything that this _apparition _was saying. He probably would have looked insane talking to thin air if someone happened to walk in now, but hell, what else was he supposed to do? Just carry on with his daily routine whilst this….thing sat there watching him with those unnerving, inhuman eyes?

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise that you were the expert on genie laws. Forgive me, oh wise one."

The genie had this unpleasant look on his face, and actually had the nerve to roll his eyes at John. A hallucination that was coming from his _own mind_ had just rolled his eyes at him. That actually made sense, when he thought about it, considering that he wasn't feeling that good about himself at this point. In fact he'd go so far as to admit that he was an enemy against himself.

"Alright, so you just expect me to believe that you're real and I'm not imagining this, do you? Let alone the fact that you claim to be a genie."

"Well I think that if you were to imagine something, it certainly wouldn't be me. Maybe you'd conjure up your dear grandfather, I sort of you wish you had. He never bothered me, unlike you. Then again he was always much more wise than you."

John's face steadily began to go bright red as he listened to the genie and he clenched his fists, offended by what this _intruder_,for a better word, had said about him. He didn't know anything! Or, rather, if he was an imagining from John's own mind maybe he knew everything and John really didn't like hearing a few home truths.

Seemingly not impressed by John's indignant spluttering and general red-faced denial, the dark haired genie stood from his chair and clicked his fingers, making it disappear from existence altogether.

"I have to say, you are pretty high on the list of masters who have not taken the proof of my existence very well. At least you didn't faint, you can just imagine the horror I had to go through of trying to rouse a previous master from unconsciousness. Honestly, you humans are such fragile things."

John had once again been reduced to speechlessness as he watched the strange being make a chair, that hadn't been there the night before, seemingly disappear into nothing. If only his english teacher had been able to coax this imagination out of him when it came to writing short stories in school, he could have been a literary genius by now. Momentarily distracted by thoughts of his childhood and memories of his then-healthy and, more importantly, _alive _grandfather, John almost missed the distant look that the genie got in his eyes when he looked to the outside world through the window. The tall figure must have noticed John watching him and his head quickly snapped around so he could get a look at him and John could have sworn that he was _scowling_.

"What's that look for?"

The genie sniffed and appeared to give him a pompous look. Crossing his arms, and making his bangles tinkle in the quiet of the threadbare flat, he sighed and leveled John with a firm stare.

"You have questions. Again. Please try to make them at least a little more intelligent this time."

"Well you didn't answer _all_ of my first questions, actually," John pointed out with a huff of annoyance at how insulting he was being.

"My name is whatever you wish to call me, Master," the genie intoned in a dull voice, obviously used to repeating that phrase over and over again.

Something in the way he looked when he said those words didn't sit right with John and the blond man moved to sit on the edge of his bed, hands resting evenly beside him on the mattress as he faced the tall figure.

"Surely you have your own name. You can't have gone your whole life just being referred to as whatever someone else felt like calling you," John replied with a frown, uncomfortable at the thought.

That wasn't a life to live, surely? Then again, how was he to know? He'd only lived this one life and he didn't know any other. The way that this man was referring to himself sounded, disturbingly, like he'd been treated as a slave. Now he really didn't want to believe that this was something he'd imagined up. Despite the things he'd seen during the fighting over in Afghanistan, he didn't really think that he'd turned into some sort of monster because of it. Maybe he was less of a good person than he'd been before he left for the army, but he still had a conscience. And a rather strong one at that.

The genie shrugged and looked away from John, tapping his fingers against his arms as they crossed over each other.

"I once had my own name, but it isn't required of anyone to use it anymore since I'm not my own person. As long as I serve someone else, I don't matter."

"That's bullshit. You know people don't have slaves anymore, right? That's such an old-fashioned thing, and it's wrong."

John's eyes narrowed at the frustrating person in front of him when said person snorted with condescending laughter and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, now I'm being told my own existence is all a lie. What an intelligent master I've been landed with this time. For once I may actually feel inferior in something other than the fact that I am chained to that lamp and bound to serve whoever happens to rub it and disturb me from my peace. For once, someone may just be smarter than me. Who'd have thought that possible?"

John's face kept going red as a tomato, not oblivious to the sarcastic tone that the genie was using with him, and it just further confused him as well as angered him. Could he not just grieve for his grandfather in peace without his mind or, dare he say it, this supernatural being plaguing him?

"Alright, just shut up. Shut up. Do you have to be so god damn _rude_? If you are what you say you are, and I'm still not completely sure if I'm even awake yet, then how on earth have you lasted so long as a genie? Are you rude to all of your masters?"

This time the genie in question turned away and began to pace around the room, and even though John was angry, the sound of bangles tinkling in the drizzly London morning was a pleasant one. One he wouldn't mind sticking around. Wait, what was he thinking? No, he needed to concentrate and get this sorted because he was sick and tired, and _so_ exhausted from the recent events in his life. He'd been through trouble and pain, he didn't need this.

"Forgive me for not being as accommodating as you'd expect, John Watson, but I'm not your typical genie. I've been around for hundreds of years, yes, but that doesn't mean that I don't remember my life before."

"Before what?" John asked quietly after a few moments' silence, his curiosity peaked as to what Sherlock was getting at. What could he mean, his life before?

"My life before becoming a genie," Sherlock muttered, then shook his head and tipped his head back to presumably look at the ceiling, "And I have no idea why I'm telling _you_ this, of all people. I haven't always been a genie. I was human for, what, maybe thirty or so years? And I travelled to China to fuel the flames of my knowledge and quest to know more about the world. You've heard the phrase curiosity killed the cat? Well some would probably use that phrase to describe what happened to me. I happened upon an archive of ancient books and such, and I asked a local translator to translate some of them for me as I hadn't perfected the language yet."

The genie paused a moment, his hands flexing at his sides before he continued.

"Turns out that this man had been waiting for someone like me to turn up for years. Someone intelligent and strong enough that he could test out the powers of one book in particular. A spell book. He locked me in a room and began reading out from some of the pages like he was chanting. I tried talking him out of it, reasoning with him since that's what I usually do to get myself out of particular spots of trouble, but he wouldn't stop. I remember… pain. Incredible pain. Once the first passage had been read, I thought I was safe and I tried to run, but the man produced a lamp to show me, and told me that it was to be my new home. I tried so hard to understand, to get him to explain, it was so painful that I couldn't quite comprehend what was going on. I could only pick out fragmented sentences from the ancient language. I tried to stop him from reading the next passage, but after only a few sentences from the book I was in total darkness."

John didn't dare make a sound as the genie told his tale, instead he watched him intensely, listening to his every word and trying to understand everything himself. He was stunned to see that the genie's unnatural eyes shone with tears as he turned to look at John, even though his face showed his fury.

"He'd given me a genie's powers and then captured me in that...that _thing_," he spat, pointing at the lamp on John's desk, and the ex-army doctor couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for all the times throughout his life that he'd admired it.

"So, after he'd… done all that? What happened?"

"He rubbed the lamp, of course," the genie said with a sigh, hastily wiping at his eyes and feeling mad at himself for letting all of this get to him, "Wanted to be the first one that I'd serve, since he did _such_ an honour of gifting me with those powers. And serve him I did, though I was miserable. Stuck in that lamp whenever he had no use of me. I had to learn to use the powers myself, and only then could I make the lamp anything like a home. Took me a good while."

"I'm sorry," John offered in a quiet voice, not knowing what else there was to say, what with this hardly being the most typical of situations. He meant it though.

The genie blinked and turned to him then, staring at him as if he'd sprouted two heads and then breathed fire. Actually, he was probably used to that sort of thing if he had the powers of a genie.

"Why are you saying that you're sorry? Do you already have a wish in mind? You don't need to butter me up, I'm bound to grant three wishes for you anyway. There's no point."

"No, look - I _am_ sorry, okay? What you went through, it's terrible. Never seeing your home again, never seeing your family and friends. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. I'm sorry," John said with a sigh, watching the man's face. The genie seemed to have trouble understanding the ex-army doctor's words, staring at his face unblinkingly which sort of unnerved John a bit, but he didn't look away because he wanted this...genie to know he meant his words. He really did feel for him. It took a while, but finally the tall, pale figure took a deep breath and seemed to come back to himself before his lips quirked up at the corners and he held out a hand.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
